Beetle Boy by Margaret Willey Page B

someone.”
    â€œCan we just … can we please talk about it some other time?” I asked. “I think I’m getting sick from inhaling fumes.” We had been laughing only a few moments ago, but now I was feeling a terrible burden. “Can you please drive me home?” I asked.
    She looked away, shaking her head. We walked back into her house in silence. “Get your jacket,” she said. “It’s in the front hallway.”
    She made a meatloaf sandwich for Liam and drove me back to Grove Street. Before I got out of the car, with the sandwich in my pocket, she said, “Will you come back and see me whenever you need to?”
    â€œRight, Mrs. M.,” I said numbly.
    â€œAnd one of these times, will you bring your brother?”
    â€œOkeydokey,” I agreed. I was under such a black cloud of dread and guilt that I wasn’t sure I’d ever see her again myself. It was that bad.

FIFTEEN
    It is early, the morning after the big visit, and Clara has come to my bed to wake me. She is excited about something, and I am having trouble waking up after a long night of tossing and turning.
    â€œRise and shine, Charlie,” she says. “Are you getting excited about where we’re going today?” She pounds my chest and belly lightly, determined to get me moving.
    â€œStop it.”
    â€œAre you forgetting you might get some good news today?”
    â€œThere is no good news in the forecast.”
    â€œCharlie! Remember what today is?”
    â€œDon’t you have to go to work soon?”
    â€œIt’s my day off, remember? I took today off because of your big doctor’s appointment.”
    She is right. This is why she is excited. It could possibly be the day they remove my cast and replace it with the walking boot. Remembering this, I feel a fluttering of excitement too at the prospect of no more cast and being able to walk without crutches. I smile at Clara hopefully, thankful that she kept track of my appointment, but she doesn’t return my smile.
    â€œCharlie, please tell me why you moved your boxes out of my closet.”
    I hadn’t thought she would notice—at least not right away. I had underestimated her yet again. I decide in a flash to give her an answer, albeit a dishonest one.
    â€œI thought they might be taking up too much room.”
    â€œOh, really? Really, Charlie? Your few little boxes taking up too much room in my big old closet? How considerate of you. Where did you move them to, Charlie?”
    I meet her eyes. I so completely do not want to tell her where I put the boxes that for a long moment, I can’t speak at all. My tongue is paralyzed. I shake my head, trying to communicate wordlessly how impossible it is for me to tell her where the boxes are. She attacks from a new direction.
    â€œTell me more about that cousin who died.”
    Oh God. The damn cousin who died. An old lie, coming back to bite my ass. I don’t want to add to it. I take a deep breath. “Not my cousin,” I say. “Don’t know why I said it was a cousin. Just a girl I knew. Someone. From a long time ago, nobody important.”
    She is rightly bewildered. “So did the girl actually die?”
    Another long pause. “No. She just … went away. Look, I don’t know why I said she died. I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want to have to explain why I still have her stupid picture.”
    â€œWhy do you still have her stupid picture?”
    â€œThere’s no reason. There’s nothing to tell. It meant something to me once. I guess I loved her. I don’t know. She was my babysitter. I was like seven years old.” I add, pleadingly, “I had a really fucked-up childhood, okay? You’ve figured that much out, haven’t you?”
    She nods. “I feel so sad for you right now.”
    â€œDon’t say that. Please. Don’t feel sad for me. Please. I can’t stand having people feel sad